


the airing of grievances

by De_Nugis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 09:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean practice their mad communication skillz.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the airing of grievances

**Author's Note:**

> Slightly cracky 8.9 fixit coda.

They’re holed up in Rufus’s cabin and Dean is baking purgatory cookies. 

Sam doesn’t know if it’s passive aggression or some kind of weird Christmas curse or therapy or just that Dean’s bored. It’s really not his problem. Except for how there’s a tangle of sugar spice tentacles on his keyboard.

“Cthulu,” says Dean, “You kill it by biting the head off.”

Sam sets Cthulu atop a molasses Leviathan (“you kill it by biting the head off”) a frosted werewolf (“you kill it by biting the head off”) and a tree with eyes (“just eat the damn thing, Sam”) and glares at Dean before he blows the crumbs from between the keys. After Louisiana they’d gone through a few rounds of yelling, thrown a couple of punches, before Sam settled on silence and Dean on baking. So far it’s a draw. 

Dean goes back to the kitchen. He returns with two gingerbread men. One is kind of bow-legged. The other has messy swirls of icing on its head. 

“OK,” says Dean, holding out the first cookie. “So I’m giving you one free chance. I mean, I know you’re pissed. The text message thing. So go ahead. Bite my head off.”

Sam takes it warily.

“You gonna bite my head off?” he asks, nodding at the other cookie. Like there’s a fucking chance. And Dean just tricked him into talking. 

“Nah,” says Dean. Of course not. He’s a goddamn hoarder. “Might eat the hair, though. That’s gotta hurt, Sammy.” He breaks off a small loop of icing hair – it’s pink – and eats it with a cocky Dean grin. His hands are nervous, though, and his eyes, where he’s watching Sam out of the corners. 

That’s Dean. Crowding and charming Sam into forgiving him, and it’s not fair. It’s not fair because Dean’s always in a rush, when it comes to Sam, but he takes his own sweet time, geological time. It’s not fair because Sam’s in the wrong as well here, he knows that, and it puts him off balance. Nothing is going to convince him that isn’t Dean’s fault. It’s not fair because Sam, Sam goes off, but then Dean’s the one gets to choose when to reel him back in. It’s not fair because it’s genuinely fucking hard to be mad at Dean. It’s not fair because Dean’s scared, he’s looking at Sam from the corners of his eye and he’s eating pink icing and he’s scared. And if Sam can’t take that then it’s blackmail, that’s what it is.

Maybe it will actually be cathartic. He bites off Dean’s gingerbread head. 

He’s still mad. It’s still not fair. The cookie’s pretty good, though.

“The cookie’s pretty good,” he says, noncommittal. Dean sets gingerbread Sam down and stands up jerkily and goes back to the kitchen.

“Here,” he says, dropping another cookie in Sam’s hand. “I know you, uh. I know you wanted. Anyway. Here.” It’s a dog. A gingerbread dog. It’s carefully done, fine lines of fur etched into the dough.

Sam looks down because his eyes are stinging. He hadn’t seen Riot. He’d been back, he’d seen Amelia, the house, but he hadn’t seen Riot. Riot has no idea why he’s gone. 

Dean gave him a gingerbread dog.

Dean’s passive aggressive and possibly cursed and fucked up and bored. He’s going to put gingerbread Sam -- _bald_ gingerbread Sam -- away in some damn sealed tin with Stanford and Ruby and keep it for years. But he’s trying to communicate. Dean’s maybe being the bigger man here. Sam should maybe reciprocate. He picks up the eye tree. It’s pretty cool, actually. Dean could probably make money doing this, if he ever got his head out of hunting.

“So,” Sam says, “Trees with eyes, huh? They got those in purgatory?” He breaks off a twig and eats it. It’s chocolate. 

Dean’s gaze is fixed firmly on the next curl of icing he’s detaching from gingerbread Sam’s head. 

“Yeah,” Dean says. “It’s, uh, mostly woods there. Freaky ass woods. Fucking uncomfortable, too. Couldn’t sleep without some goddamn tree root digging into me.” 

And then he shuts up like a trap. It’s enough, though. As much as they can do for now. Dean must know if he produces almond Benny or oatmeal raisin Amelia Sam will fucking kill him.

“Thanks for the dog,” says Sam. He sets that one carefully aside, next to decapitated Dean. He’s eating the rest of the tree, though. And maybe the Leviathan, that looks good.

Dean nibbles one more bit of pink icing.

“You’re welcome,” he says. He sounds like he means it.


End file.
